Girls' Day Out - Fall, 2008 - Archive-Diving

Another dip into the draft dumpster to salvage this memory from the month after our son-in-law's death in October of 2008. This was a lovely, small event that marked an important step in healing on the road to recovery for all of us, most especially for Lisa. And I think milestones need to be noted and remembered.

It was raining Saturday. Enough to keep the windshield wipers in full-time swish mode for the entire drive from here back through the hills to Ojai. 

My two daughters, my daughter-in-law and I climbed into my trusty blue Honda Pilot and braved the elements to visit the world-famous Spa Ojai at the Ojai Valley Inn. 

A most interesting experience - not something that we do with any frequency at all (a first visit to the place for 3 of the 4 of us) - and one that we enjoyed. 

The place was busy, busy, busy. No sign of economic crisis here! Literally dozens of people, all wearing white spa robes, sitting, resting, hot-tubbing, sipping cold water with sliced cucumber and mint or warming up with hot herbal tea. In the women's hot tub area, every single chaise lounge was filled with a white-robed, resting female. 

One exception to the white robes was a mother/daughter pair, there to celebrate the daughter's 21st birthday, dressed identically in hot pink tank tops with gold sequined hearts spread across the entire front. 

I must admit to some hesitance in disrobing in a common locker space, no matter how elegant. It's been a while! All of us remembered high school gym class and the mixed emotions of that entire experience. But as I allowed myself to relax, I began to notice that there were all kinds and types of women around me - every decade, every size, every shape. Not a ton of racial or ethnic diversity, but a little. Most were there to unwind, to step away from the swirl of daily life for a few hours, and that's a very good thing. Too bad it's such an expensive thing - at least at this particular place! 

My recently widowed eldest daughter Lisa had received a loving gift from some family members in the form of a gift card for the spa and she wanted to treat us all to a pedicure. We did it in twos, and I must say it was a lovely, indulgent, softly sensuous experience. 

As you can see by the delightfully scrubbed, trimmed and painted toenails above, we all chose different colors, but ended up with the same affect: rested bodies and spirits. I also had a massage - in a beautiful small room with its own small fireplace and a heated massage table. Bliss. 

Then we dined in the spa restaurant for a late lunch, enjoying the outing and the time together. The drive home was rain-free and absolutely gorgeous. Rolling green hills and a leisurely water-side mile or two along Lake Casitas. 

We arrived in time to freshen up, join the men/boys and then dine out together at Piatti's to celebrate our eldest grandson's 18th birthday, returning home to yet another intense sensual experience - chocolate cake! - homemade with love and skill by our daughter-in-law. Dark cake, dark ganache, nutella on one layer, hazelnuts on the outside edge and chopped up Skor bars in the filling. Oh my, my, my.

Overall, it was a very delightful and relaxing weekend together - despite a few bad colds and one very sick 3-year-old who coughed so hard, he had to go home from the restaurant to clean up and recover before rejoining us just in time for dinner - which he devoured. Can't let great homemade mac and cheese go to waste! 

I am more grateful for the gift of family than I can possibly put into words. Each of these women is a remarkable individual - caring, smart and beautiful. We have walked through an intensely difficult time together and will continue to try and find our way through this wilderness territory called grief, dependent on God and one another to make it to the other side. 

And freshly painted toenails are their own strange and wonderful therapy!

In the Middle of the Mess - Archive-Diving, 2008

Once again, plowing through the archives to salvage some of the written record of the last five years or so. This was was written in November of 2008, and as I look at this gathered community, I am hushed. One marriage, broken. One infant, now a healthy almost-5-year-old, one dear mother-in-law, now unable to speak and fading, fading, fading. Time is relentless.

You might think this an odd picture to publish with the title listed above. But for me, right now, on a Monday late afternoon, sitting at my desk and prayerfully holding before God so many people that I care about who are definitely in the middle of some kind of mess....this picture is a powerful reminder to me of God's faithfulness.

Faithfulness in, through, around, and right smack dab in the middle of the mess.

The date this picture was taken? November 16, 2008.

The context? Our Sunday morning worship gathering after the Tea Fire, which had swept through Santa Barbara during the immediately preceding three days. Our church building was still part of the evacuation area for that fire, an area which had begun to shrink some the night before, but which at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday morning still included the access roads to our property.

My husband and I had also been evacuated and had returned home late in the evening on Saturday. And 14 families in our community had seen their homes either destroyed or severely damaged from the ravenous, wind-driven flames of that terrifying time. We were all in the very heart of the most painful and frightening mess most of us could just about ever remember.

And right there - in the middle of it all - we saw remarkable signs of God's faithfulness, of God's loving presence, of God's provisional care, even in the throes of a natural disaster. We found amazing evidences of grace everywhere we looked.

No one in our church community, or in the broader neighborhood, sustained serious injury; the wonders of modern technology enabled us to stay in contact throughout the three days of electrical and wireless disruption; the church was spared and immediately useful for community communication and encouragement gatherings of all kinds; staff and lay leadership rallied to plan and pull off a worship service at an alternate site - the local country club, of all places! - and we were reminded throughout that service of God's presence, deliverance and providential care, despite the enormity of the mess.

So today, as I pray for a wide variety of painful, frightening and messy situations - I am grateful to remember God's faithfulness in the midst of a pretty big mess not all that long ago.

I'm not a fan of messes. Don't enjoy them all that much - would, of course, prefer not to have lived through most of the ones I've experienced.

But this much I know: God will meet me there, right in the middle of it.

We are not alone, sometimes despite all kinds of evidence to the contrary. So, Lord, have mercy. Have mercy in the mess. And thank you for stepping into the muck with us.

An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen - Day 7

"God, it seems you've been our home forever;

long before the mountains were born,

long before you brought earth itself to birth,

from 'once upon a time' to 'kingdom come' -- you are GOD.

So don't return us to mud, saying,

'Back to where you came from!"

Patience!

You've got all the time in the world --

whether a thousand years or a day,

it's all the same to you.

Are we no more to you than a wispy dream,

no more than a blade of grass that springs up gloriously 

with the rising sun and is cut down without a second thought?

Your anger is far and away too much for us;

we're at the end of our rope.

You keep track of all our sins; 

every misdeed since we were children

is entered in your books.

All we can remember is that frown on your face.

Is that all we're ever going to get?

We live for seventy years or so 

(with luck we might make it to eighty),

and what do we have to show for it?

Trouble.

Toil and trouble and a marker in the graveyard.

Who can make sense of such rage,

such anger against the very ones who fear you?

Oh! teach us to live well!

Teach us to live wisely and well!

Come back, GOD --

how long do we have to wait --

and treat your servants with kindness for a change.

Surprise us with love at daybreak;

then we'll skip and dance all the day long.

Make up for the bad times with some good times;

we've seen enough evil to last a lifetime.

Let your servants see what you're best at --

the ways you rule and bless your children.

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God,

rest on us, confirming the work that we do.

Oh, yes. Affirm the work that we do!"

-- Psalm 90, The Message

Sounds like the psalmist has had a rough week. More likely, a rough few years. Can you relate to the very real emotions expressed in this remarkable song? These are core questions, aren't they?

          Must we suffer like this forever?

          Where the heck are you?

          Our lives are like leaves, falling from the trees --

                    swept away like yesterday's garbage . . .

                    when will you smile at us again, God?

          Have mercy, O LORD. Have mercy.

I've been struggling with some very hard news from dear friends as they grapple with a fresh, harsh diagnosis of leukemia for their beautiful toddler boy. And word from another friend, who is struggling to find ways to comfort someone whose child was violently killed. And our own moms' slow fade from the planet. 

So sometimes, this is a song I need to sing, a lament I need to raise. There is a sense in which Advent is a time of mourning, I think. A time for recognizing that we live in a messed-up world, filled with too many messed-up people, including me. We live in a world that needs saving, day in and day out.

We ache for things to shift enough to provide some relief. I think that's why the singer has chosen to use the image of God's wrath or anger in this song. Because in the midst of the muck, it can sometimes make it easier to bear if we picture God as the source of it all. Then we can turn the blame in a clear direction. 

And we know that God is big enough to handle our fussing and fuming and wondering and worrying. And as the song draws to an end, the psalmist remembers the whole picture, the overwhelmingly reassuring picture that God is the God of loveliness and good work, the One who teaches us to live wisely and well. 

Even when it feels as though surely God must be angry with us, else why would we be suffering so much - even there, even then, it is good to come round home again. To acknowledge that God is the God who walks beside us, through thick and thin, through loveliness and horror, through joy and sorrow. In the grand scheme of things, our lives may indeed have the transience of falling leaves, BUT God sees those leaves as they fall, each and every one, and God has assigned each one a value beyond measure.

O LORD, there are days when all I want to do is shake my fist in your face and cry out for 'mercy.' And so I do. Mercy, LORD, mercy. Yet even as the words leave my lips, I recognize that they are, in reality, the very same word. For you are mercy, my God. Thank you, thank you.

That Delicate Balance, Part Two

She really wanted him to play the piano.

Among the earliest guests to arrive

at the party,

she made her desires known

right away.

And of course, I am not surprised 

she felt that way.

She's been teaching him piano for 14 years.

He was 4 when he started,

and we were gathered to celebrate

his 18th birthday,

 

and his graduation from high school.

The graduate with his family.

Four.teen.years.

How many people do you know who stick

with anything for that long? 

"He's been working on this one all year long,"

she said.

"I want to get him on tape,"

she said. 

But he resisted for quite a while.

As the sun began to set,

about sixty friends and family trickled

in the front door. 

The house looked lovely,

the yard, enchanting.

The chatter was friendly,

filled with laughter and warm reminiscence.

A slide show went round and round,

repeating on the big-screen television set,

featuring a lovely collection

of photos from day one until yesterday.

And it was there,

catching glimpses of the past,

that I felt the first sharpness,

the sudden movement of grief and loss

mixing its way right into the middle of 

celebration and joy. 

Our grandboy as a newborn,

held in the loving arms of his daddy.

His daddy who died almost four years ago. 

So much sadness for so long.

And so much joy and happiness, too.

All of it mixed up together in this journey we call life. 

Our daughter's new husband,

strong and kind and good -

such a gift to all of us,

a gift we are grateful for,

right down to our toes. 

But another milestone has come and gone.

And Mark was not here to celebrate with us.

That will never change.

And I imagine, we will always feel

that stab of recognition at such times,

that moment of searing sorrow. 

It was only a moment.

And soon, the joyful banter

gained volume in corners, at tables,

in the yard, in the house.

And then, cutting through the conversation,

I heard the strains of Chopin.

Familiar music to my ears,

music I heard in my own home, growing up.

Ballade Number One,*

technically difficult,

achingly beautiful. 

So I gently led my mother into the living room,

to listen as Luke played this glorious piece.

She sat in a chair placed right in front of the piano.

My father's piano,

the one he played for years and years. 

And I stood behind her, 

my hand on her shoulder. 

And together, we heard a miracle. 

The piano literally sang to us.

Of love and loss,

of hope and discouragement,

of hard work - hours and hours of hard work.

My dad's,

Luke's,

our own. 

The tears rolled down my cheeks as I

missed my dad,

as I missed Mark,

as I celebrated Luke,

as I thanked God for Karl,

as I thanked God for all of it.

All.Of.It. 

Learning to play Chopin takes practice.

Practice, practice, practice. 

And learning to hold the tensions,

the mysteries of this life -

to hold them together,

to let them resonate with one another,

to acknowledge the pain and loss,

and to celebrate the gift and joy -

sometimes in the very same instant -

this takes practice, too. 

Life is hard.

Life is glorious.

Life is overwhelmingly difficult.

Life is radiantly free.

Life is ...

LIFE. 

It's a dance with ever-changing tempo;

it's a song with shifting harmonies;

it's a tapestry,

a rich oil painting,

filled with color and with shadow. 

Thankfully, we don't have to navigate 
the dance floor on our own; 
we don't have to struggle to sing all the parts. 

We are given the gift of one another. 

And we are given the gift of Presence.

Loving, gracious Presence.

God - Father, Son and Spirit;

Creator-Redeemer-Counselor -

GOD ALMIGHTY

invites us into the ongoing dance of the Trinity,

the intricately, achingly beautiful song of the universe. 

In this life, we cannot yet see the edge of the dance floor,

nor can we hear the resolution of all the chords.

But...

we can know the One who does.  

Thanks be to God.

^"And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God’s own will.  And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them."

Romans 8:27-28, The New Living Translation

*At the bottom of this post you will find a link to Vladimir Horowitz playing this piece. Horowitz was a hero to my dad - a genius on the piano, especially playing Chopin.
This is an older video of a live performance, but you will get a view of the
technical virtuosity needed to play this music. 
I was so moved that I did not think to shift my little Canon camera over to video
to record even a little bit of Luke playing!
 
Thanks so much, Luke, for those transcendent 10 minutes.

Joining with those same friends with this second part on balance...no buttons this time.
Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer and Emily. And this time with Laura Boggess, too.

Remembering with Gratitude: A Life Well-Lived

Abbot David Nicholas Geraets, OSB
March 4, 1935-March 2, 2012

Entered St. Benedict's Abbey, Benet Lake Wisconsin
Made monastic profession - September 1, 1957
Ordained to the priesthood - September 29, 1962
Baptized by the Holy Spirit - November 1967 and began 
ministry to the charismatic renewal.
Elected First Abbot of Pecos Monastery - April 11, 1973
Abbatial Service - 1973-1992
Conventual Prior in San Luis Obispo 1992-2012
  
I'm fumbling around for the right earrings.

Packing an overnight bag for a short trip.

My fingers trip and tangle,

the jewelry falls on the counter,

and I feel the tears behind my eyes.

Looking up into the mirror,

I ask myself:

"What does one wear to a wake?

To a Resurrection Mass for a priest,

an abbot,

a mentor,

a friend?

What do I wear?"

And the answer comes,

"Wear your heart."

And I pack it right up,

 lay it in the suitcase,

next to the small jewelry box,

the St. Benedict medal on its chain,

the clear colors he always noticed,

the small, ordinary pieces of an everyday life.

Because that's all I've got, isn't it?

This heart full of memories,

of words heard and received,

of sweet smiles and heartfelt prayers and gentle marks of the cross.

We drive north,

this drive we've taken together for almost two years now.

Ever since my health scare and hospitalization in May of 2010, my husband has chosen to make this trip with me each month. 

He takes long walks up and down the steep driveway of the monastery while I sit in the Holy Spirit House with the abbot.

We've both come to love this day-long venture together.

And I wonder as the wheels turn and the miles slide by,

will this be the last time?

 And I wonder,

is this really why we're going today?

To say good-bye?

We choose to stay overnight at the coast, 

15 minutes from the mortuary and the church.

A good, good choice for us ocean people.

Just walking on the bluffs in the warm wind, 

it blows courage into our souls.

We get there early,

the mortuary where the vigil will be held.

Because that, I learn, is what a monastic wake is all about.

It's a time for call and response singing and reading,

for sharing memories and stories,

for keeping vigil with one another

on the eve of the final good-bye.

A short, strong nun leads the sung part of our prayer time.

And she is gifted, so gifted.

Gracious, confident, calling us to join the song with the lifting of her arms. 

I relax into the music, letting the Spirit sink deep. 

The brothers read lines from St. Gregory about St. Benedict.

We sing the "Sucsipe" - the song sung by every Benedictine priest at the time of vows and renewal of vows:

"Receive me, O Lord, 

as you have promised

and I shall live.

Do not disappoint me in my hope." 

Can I just tell you how deeply

and strongly

my soul and spirit resonate with this kind of worship?

Simple melodies,

heartfelt words,

the ability to be silent without tension.

Too many churches in my life do not know how to do silence. At all.

These warmhearted, generous Catholic friends?

They know how.

And the next day, it is the same.

This time a formal Resurrection Mass,

complete with the presiding Bishop of the diocese and a trailing line of priests from all kinds of places,

sitting together, joining their voices throughout the litany.

"A motley crew," the bishop named them.

And they are that.

But I think perhaps these are a brave crew, too.

Standing and singing and praying together for a departed friend.

The same nun leads the singing, serving as cantor extraordinaire.

The scriptures are chosen from those David loved - 

the Shepherd's psalm

(which we sing and I am undone, just undone),

Habakkuk 3 - the vision will come...wait for it

Revelation 21 - behold, I make all things new...

John 3 - unless you be born from above...

And his friend and partner in work, 

Father Ray Roh preaches a magnificent memorial sermon.

I am blessed, grateful, aware that this was not an easy task to take.

Communion is moving, as it always is.

All stand, in prayer and attention, until each person is served.

And we sing, we sing.

New to this world of Catholic gatherings, 

we assumed a 2:00 service would be followed by a reception of desserts, to which we happily contributed a big bowl of beautiful fresh berries and some cookie bars.

Oh, no.

A full lunch spread - gorgeous and yummy looking.

Except, of course, we had eaten lunch.

So we watched and listened and felt the love vibrating throughout the Parish Hall.

And then we washed out our bowl,

loaded the car

and headed home.

Encouraged, exhausted, fed.

Grateful, grieving, content in a strange and satisfying way.

 We are left marveling that we 

never knew such richness existed in this Catholic space,

that we were so narrow in our view of life, 

of worship,

of God.

And the simple, haunting melody of that psalm,

that's what we each remembered,

that's what we continue to draw on.

Here is a YouTube version of Marty Haugen's beautiful liturgical rendition of Psalm 23.

The response comes first - to teach the congregation.

Then the verses, followed by the response each time. 

Watch, savor, listen, SING:

 All I can say,

all I can sing,

all I can pray is  
THANK YOU, LORD.

THANK YOU.

We're heading out of town for a while in the morning. I hope to have a chance to link this with Michelle at "Graceful" and with Jen at "Finding Heaven." But I'll publish it now and link to it on Facebook in case I can't find reliable internet service while we're away.

Thanks to so many of you for your kind words, your support and encouragement and your prayers. Oh, most definitely, your prayers. 
I also tagged onto both Laura's this week - Barkat at "Seedlings in Stone," and Boggess at "The Wellspring," and at Ann Voskamp's Wednesday round-up. And today, I'll tag in at Bonnie's place as she's taking six weeks off to finish her book! And at "Journey to Ephiphany," who has so kindly taken on Emily Weirenga's weekly log-in: